Reader, I Married Him
by sbarra
Summary: Have you ever thought about some of the similarities between 'Jane Eyre' and 'Christy? This story explores those ideas. As in Charlotte Bronte's novel, Christy Huddleston (an orphaned governess) will eventually marry the brooding hero, Neil MacNeill. *Updated weekly*
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Over the years, several 'Christy' fans have discussed with me how Neil MacNeill, in some ways, is similar to Edward Rochester from Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre.' This work of fan-fiction is not made for profit, or to violate the rights of the Marshall-LeSourd family, but rather to explore this idea. It begins in Tennessee in 1912, much like the beloved classic upon which it is based. _

**Chapter 1**

The dying light of the winter evening made the snow hanging on the trees and old railroad buildings seem like frozen lace. The young mother opposite me bounced her anxious baby on her knee. Her husband affectionately tightened a pink shawl on a pretty little girl toddling at their feet.

"Excuse me, sir. Where are we?" I asked the gruff conductor.

"El Pano, ma'am," he replied, tipping his hat briefly. "Not far for you now. Centerport is one of the next flag-stops."

I thanked him and stared out at the icy, desolate place. For the hundredth time, I told myself that leaving Lowood Orphanage at Asheville had been the right choice. I needed a fresh start away from Ida Brocklehurst and the bad memories of my lonely childhood. Wanting to distract myself, I reached for my sketchbook. The letter from my new employer almost fell to the floor. I smoothed it out and read it once more:

"_If Miss Christy Huddleston, who advertised in the__ 'The __Asheville Times'__ last month can give satisfactory references, a situation can be offered her where there is but one student and where the salary is fifty dollars per annum. Miss CH is requested to send references and all particulars to: "Mrs. Molly Tatum, Thistlewood Hall, near Centerport, Tennessee."_

Just the thought of earning twice what I had at Lowood filled me with awe; and for one student, instead of thirty, too! God had surely blessed me with this chance to become a governess. I folded the letter back up, placing it carefully between some of my first sketches. I did not look at them; I did not want to think about the past, but to push on towards the future. I tried to remember the Bible verse about that. I think it was from St Paul's Letter to the Philippians. In all my preparations to leave Lowood Orphanage, I had not been reading my Scriptures as much as was my habit.

I settled back in the chair, watching the blur of the icy world speed past us. Every now and then a flash of lightning from a distant storm would illuminate the high, icy mountain peaks. Darkness fell so swiftly in these mountains, and despite their shadowy and jagged forms, I found comfort in them. They were the hills of home; the backdrop to each season on my morning walks.

The engineer blew a long warning whistle and the train began to slow down. The screeching of the train's brakes as it lurched to a stop broke into my reverie.

"Centerport Flagstop, Tennessee," the conductor announced, carrying a lit railroad lantern towards me. I buttoned up my coat, picked up my muff and my suitcase, and started down the aisle.

"Let me help you with that, ma'am," he said, warning me about the slippery steps. 

"Howdy Farse!" he greeted an elderly man holding a lantern beside a horse-drawn cart. 

The stoop-shouldered man silently tipped his hat to both of us and then came forward to take my meagre belongings. He slung them on the back. The conductor looked at me quizzically, perhaps wondering if a 'city gal' in her best coat could handle herself in the middle of nowhere. I tried to appear confident as I thanked him and swept over to the cart. I almost fell onto the ice, but managed to climb up onto the seat and busy myself with my muff.

"Next stop be Lyleton!" the conductor announced as he boarded the train.

I hoped the butterflies in my stomach would settle soon as I watched the railroad engine disappear over the horizon.

"How far is the house, Mr Farse?" I asked politely after we had been bumping along the washboard of a trail for some time.

He shrugged, "'nother two miles, Miss."

I was relieved and focused on trying to stop my teeth from chattering in the cold breeze. I would have distracted myself by admiring the view, but the lanterns showed little more than a yard or so beyond the careworn horses. 

I tried twice more to begin a conversation, but Mr Farse's monosyllabic responses made it clear that he did not converse easily with strangers. The two miles he estimated seemed more like ten. At last, we stopped climbing and a very large house loomed out of the darkness. The lamplight in several of the windows and smoke pouring from three chimneys were welcome sights.

Mr Farse pulled on the reins and then stomped around to the back of the cart. He placed my suitcase on the porch, grunted and tipped his head to the large front door. I thanked him as politely as I could, feeling that he could have at least carried my suitcase inside. Telling myself not to be too quick to judge others, I shook my skirts out and then twirled the bell. A big-boned, smiling woman dressed in navy blue opened the door, almost filling the opening.

"Mrs Tatum?" I asked nervously.

"Howdy do, my dear? What a tirin' journey you musta had!" Old John Farse is da slowest driver in the county. You must be cold to the bone."

She busied herself, taking my coat, clucking like a hen while she took me into the large parlour and set a place close by the fire. Soon I was trying not to slurp as I hungrily spooned up every mouthful of the delightful vegetable broth.

"Fancy some city gal, who can speak French and teach Latin a'comin' all this way! I do hope you'll stay. Last gal came just from Lyleton way and left after just a week! Thought the people round here were too low for the likes of her, no doubt!" She chuckled, but seemed offended.

I assured her that I was used to plain living and tried to love others as the Lord had loved me. After all, I reminded her, I had spent several years in an orphanage. I did not want to tell her that her parlour was warmer and her soup tastier than anything I'd experienced in more than a decade. I wanted people to know me for who I was, rather than for what I had battled to overcome.

"You're a bit of a church mouse, ain'tcha?" Mrs Tatum added when I admired and quoted a Psalm embroidered in a frame. I worried that I had sounded too preachy, but she took it in her stride and talked on, filling the large room with many quaint expressions as she told yarns about the folks in the nearby Cove.

I was grateful for the cornbread she brought when she refilled my bowl with a second helping of soup. I complimented her profusely and then began eating once more. "You're skin and bone," she observed, "I'm glad that Doc MacNeill did not send our Mountie off to the Orphanage."

"Why would the Doctor send your daughter away?" I enquired, suddenly worrying that this new situation was all too good to be true. Was the child desperately ill?

"Land sakes!" Mrs Tatum exclaimed, "My daughter? Oh, Lordy no! Mountie is the Doctor's niece. His sister, Nellie, well, she gone and… hmm, I can't speak ill of the dead. Anyway, their Pa… well, he were gone, too, so… Doc MacNeill inherited the place and took the young'un in."

"Oh," I said, trying to reconcile this what I had imagined. "The little girl… she's an orphan then?"

"Unfortunately so," Mrs Tatum nodded. "She's got some half-brothers and sisters in the Cove."

"They… they don't live here, though?" I asked, remembering how Mrs Tatum had spoken of the poverty in the remote mountain community.

"They live with their Granny O'Teale," Mrs Tatum replied, "Mighty proud people won't be beholden to no one, no way! Then again, my master is much the same. Proud, stubborn Scottish stock!"

"Is the master a medical doctor or a doctor of philosophy?" I asked.

"I didn't even know there was more than one type of doctor!" She exclaimed. "Well, he's a medical one, I suppose. Fixes people right up. He's one of the best," she said proudly.

"Is Doctor MacNeill out on his rounds?" I asked, wondering if I would need to be excused to freshen up before being introduced to him. I was worried that my hair must look a fright.

"I never know where he's at," Mrs Tatum said regretfully. "He's out most nights a'fixin' people… and sometimes he takes a few days off and he comes back from Atlanta or New York City! He's even been abroad several times! He hires Doctors to come from further a'field when he decides to fly the coop. He can afford to… land sakes, most people hereabouts can't afford to pay him nothing. They raise more young'uns than they do corn!"

I smiled, "He sounds like a very kind man."

"Oh, he is," Mrs Tatum said, and then watched me hesitantly, "but he's got a foul temper. When he's in one of those moods, we all scurry away right quick!"

I wasn't sure how to reply, so I said, "I would love to be free to travel."

Mrs Tatum stood up and placed the governess' tray on the ornately carved mantelpiece, "I think he does it to… forget."

I was going to ask her more about this mysterious master, but I held my tongue when I saw the worried look cloud the older lady's eyes.

"Do you need help in the kitchen?" I asked instead. "I'm used to scrubbing pots and pans."

"Lord, no!" Mrs Tatum exclaimed. "Like I said, the Doc is a wealthy man, particularly in these parts. He has several people waiting on him and his house, Miss Huddleston."

"Please," I requested, "Call me Christy."

"Of course, Miss… Christy," she nodded, but I noticed that she did not ask me to call her by her first name. I would have to learn the ways of these mountain people. 

Mrs Tatum picked up a lamp and handed it to me and took one in her own restless hands.

"I've put you at the back of the house; I hope you don't mind. The rooms at the front have much finer furniture, but they are so gloomy and solitary, particularly at this time of year."

I couldn't help noticing all the cosy handiwork, from embroidery to fine crochet, draped on the polished mahogany furniture in the finely appointed rooms.

"I'm so glad you're come, Miss Christy. To be sure this is a fine old house but I must confess that in winter one can feel a little dreary, even with the other servants about the place. It ain't fit for the Vanderbilt's, but it is one of the grandest houses between Asheville and Knoxville. Some people tell stories about the Doc that ain't nice; you don't listen to them, you hear? They're just… jealous."

I nodded silently as we made our way down another long, wood-panelled corridor. Mrs Tatum showed me into a pleasant room with a four-poster bed and beautiful drapes. Their rosy hue matched the polished furniture's warm tones. I gasped as I admired it all. Mrs Tatum looked at me, a worried frown creasing her features. She then smiled as she saw how much delight I was taking in the room she had picked out for me.

A fire had been set in the grate and, as soon as Mrs Tatum wished me goodnight, I closed the door and twirled on the soft rug in front of the small blaze. I could not believe my good fortune – to think that I had a room with my own washstand, bed and hearth! It was more happiness than I could bear and I yawned as I changed into my nightgown. I had no sooner placed my head on the pillow than I was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2  
**

As I often did, I awoke at dawn. When I first opened my eyes, it took me a few moments to remember why I was lying in such a well-appointed and warm bedroom. I looked out of the rectangular sash window at the splendid mountains surrounding the house: peak piled upon peak, shrouded in whiteness.

I looked forward to meeting my young charge and I was soon dressing, grateful that I could don my front-lacing stays and simple blue checked dress before a warm fire. I wondered who had tended to it while I slept. It was such a luxury to not have to shatter the ice of the water in the washstand bowl, or to need to blow on my fingers and rub my hands together before brushing my hair. I admired the gilding on the dressing table mirror, tying back my hair and winding it into a bun.

Realising it was still very early; I tiptoed out and down the stairs. I quietly opened and closed the heavy front door. Soon, I was climbing a rise and looking back down at Thistlewood Hall. While nothing like the Vanderbilt's estate, which I had once glimpsed, from a distance, on a church picnic, it seemed too grand for its surroundings. It was out of place in such a remote setting. The Hall looked like it should have been in Asheville, instead of here.

Despite the distance from a large town, however, the house was beautiful. It was a picturesque Victorian home, with a wraparound front porch. My gloved fingers almost itched to sketch its high peaked gables, which were not as steeply pitched as the mountains looming behind the Hall. I hoped I would be here in Spring to see what the place looked like without the snowfalls. My artist's eye took it all in as I paced back and forth to keep my feet warm within my soft leather boots. The shingles shined like fish scales in the morning light. Droplets of melting ice fell now and then from the overhanging eaves, giving the impression of small splashes in the misty air.

The second storey balcony had the same patterned timber of the turned and tapered porch posts. The mix of quarried stone and timber reminded me of the rocky outcrops and tall trees all around me. The bevelled glass of the wood-panelled front door tried to outshine the painted balustrades with their decorative brackets. Whoever had designed the house had thought a great deal about appearances.

In some ways, it was quite a lonely place. I walked on, stopping only to catch my breath after several minutes of exploration. I listened to a pair of mourning doves in the tree above me. Their beige plumes hard to spot, but their sombre song echoing in the white, frosted wilderness. Snow had never lasted this long in Asheville. Around the orphanage, it always became dirty from soot and traffic. I never knew that snow could be so beautiful until I saw it miles away from a city: such sparkling, pristine, pure white.

Just ahead of me, though, some dark blobs were scattered over several yards, marring the whiteness. As I got closer, I saw more of the torn fur and blood – some small animal had been set upon and killed. Revolted, I skirted the spot and walked on rapidly over the snowy undergrowth. Not for the first time in my sometimes very difficult life, I wished that my mind were a slate, so that with one swipe, I could wipe away what I had just seen.

I willed myself to think upon other things, looking up to the majestic mountains, which had always been such a source of quiet strength for me. Above the next stand of fir trees, smoke curled into the cold air. I headed towards it, finding a narrow track leading through the rugged scenery.

"Who's there?" I suddenly heard someone cry out.

"Hello?" I called, smelling burning corn bread on the breeze.

"Who's there?" a girl's voice once more echoed around the small clearing I had just entered.

There was a small cabin, its roof seeming to sag beneath the snow, but someone had cleared the path all the way up to its porch; it did not look uncared for.

"I'm Christy Huddleston," I called back. "I just started working at Thistlewood Hall."

A girl with the longest mane of fierce red curls I had ever seen appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. "You be from the lowlands?" she asked.

"I'm from Asheville," I explained. "I did not mean to intrude. I was just out for a walk."

"At this time?" she asked, somewhat suspicious.

"I'm new," I said, shrugging slightly as I reached out to shake her hand.

She took it gingerly, shook it slightly and then wiped her hands on her apron once more. I wasn't sure what I had done to give offence.

"I'm Ruby Mae Beck," she told me. "I work at the Hall. Doc birthed me."

"Oh," I tried not to grimace at her allusion to a topic that would be considered poor taste where I was from.

"I'll walk you back soon if you'd care to set a spell, ma'am. I just need to wait for Will to bring back the hogs before I can head to the Hall."

"Is he your brother?" I asked conversationally.

"He's my husband," she said, proudly drawing herself up to her full height.

I was surprised that she had married so young. She did not seem much beyond fifteen years of age. "How long have you worked at the Hall, Mrs Beck?" I asked, seeking to cover my embarrassment.

"Three years," she said, looking off into the distance. "I help Mrs Tatum most days."

"She's an excellent cook," I commented.

A silence fell between us, broken by the sound of hogs moving through the woods and a young man's calls. Ruby Mae rushed inside, returning with a pail and small sack.

"Scuse me, ma'am," she called and then rushed into the woods to give the food to her husband.

When she returned she seemed to be in a slightly better mood. "I always worry bout Will on cold, dark mornings. Some folks shoot first and ask questions later in these parts."

I shivered and made a show of pretending that the brisk, mountain air was what made me tremble. Ruby-Mae Beck chatted animatedly about Mrs Tatum and some of the other folks who worked at Thistlewood Hall. I asked her about Mountie, but she spoke more about the young girl's pinafores and smock dresses than she did about my new student herself.

When I met Mountie in the breakfast parlour, I realised that she was a desperately shy and lonely girl. None of the staff spoke to her: they spoke at or for her. She was well dressed and had plenty to eat, but she seemed very unhappy. I took her for a walk in the afternoon, taking my sketchpad and tried to get her talking. I began a picture of her sitting on a low stool beside the bay windows on the front façade, admiring the lattice-work skirting and, in lieu of her answering my questions, told her a bit about the orphanage.

After lunch, Ruby Mae led us up to the schoolroom. Entering the rounded and nicely furnished space, I soon realised that it was the corner turret. Ruby Mae made a show of tossing salt over her shoulder as we entered the 'witch's hat.' I handed Mountie a slate and asked her to write the alphabet. She soon reached the letter 'z'. I read her a story and then asked her a series of questions about the characters. She shook her head for 'No' and nodded it for 'Yes.' Despite her mute ways, I realised that she was not at all 'slow' or 'backward.' I managed to elicit one small smile from her on that first day. I sketched her small cat and she looked delighted as I tore out the page and handed it to her. She sat in the corner proudly showing the kitten his likeness. Mrs Tatum, meanwhile, sat knitting by the hearth. Without meaning to, I fell asleep whilst reading a novel.

When I awoke, I saw that somebody had left a lit lantern beside me, and covered me with a blanket. There was a moaning gale outside. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders, picked up the lantern and began to walk towards my bedroom. I took a wrong turn in the dark corridors and was sure that I heard someone laugh up ahead of me in the looming darkness. I turned back towards my room, sure that I saw a two shadows moving on the wall whenever I took a step. A door clicked shut and then, to my relief, I saw Mrs Tatum approaching with a candle.

"Who else sleeps up here?" I asked, worriedly. "I saw a shadow…"

Mrs Tatum shook her head, "You must have had a bad dream, my dear. There is no one in this part of the house except for you and me."

"I heard someone," I insisted.

Mrs Tatum yawned wearily, "You can't have done."

"A laugh. Someone laughed," I knew I could not explain how eerie the laughing whimper had sounded.

Mrs Tatum floundered for a second, "Oh - that must have been Grace. She likes to sit up here with her sewing. Rather an eccentric soul." Suddenly the housekeeper shouted sharply, "Grace? Grace!"

A door at the end of the corridor opened. I saw a broad-faced woman with slow, intelligent eyes. She looked as if she has just woken up from a deep sleep.

Mrs Tatum rebuked her, "Miss Huddleston was disturbed by the laughing!"

Grace looked at me with sly curiosity. She left the sewing room and opened a door through which a flight of steep steps were revealed. Grace climbed them and disappeared into the darkness. It took me some time to fall back into a settled sleep that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Over the following weeks, I heard of the enigmatic Doctor MacNeill's comings and goings, often in the dead of night, but I was yet to meet the man myself. He seemed to return for supplies, or to catch a few hours sleep and then depart before many members of the household were awake. I wondered why he roamed about so much. One day, Mountie showed me that he had left a new doll for her. She was most attached to it, cleaning its china face at the washstand, dressing it in some of the small clothes that kept in a small toy chest in the parlour.

After I concluded our lessons each afternoon, I began to teach Mountie to sew. She was soon making small dresses out of the off-cuts of fabric that Mrs Tatum found for her. I so wanted my young charge to grow in confidence. I sometimes saw opinions form behind her large, blue eyes and wondered what it was she wished she could express.

Mountie had terrible nightmares, and I felt like I could do little more than welcome her into my bed when she rushed down the dark corridors and sobbed in my doorway. One afternoon, I did try to ask her to draw what scared her so much. The idea had lifted my spirits – I could be of comfort to her if she could tell me what haunted her. Mrs Tatum and the other staff chuckled, calling her my shadow, as she so often trailed after me.

One night, I awoke, hearing the now familiar creak in the hallway, but I did not hear the shuffle of Mountie's feet or any muffled crying. I told myself I was imagining things. Large houses creaked in the breeze after all. Turning over to go back to sleep, I had almost dozed off when I heard my doorknob rattle. I sat bolt upright in bed and then padded over to the door, wondering if one of the servant lads was playing a prank on me.

"Wraight?" I asked aloud, turning the knob and peering out into the corridor, holding my candle aloft in the dark, cold corridor. "Lundy?" I tried again. Laughter greeted me – I was so stunned that I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, but it sounded like an evil, sneering kind of noise.

I darted back into my room, turned the key in the lock and then bundled myself in the covers. The next day, however, Mrs Tatum begged me not to take it to heart, saying she feared that Grace might have had too much to drink. I vowed to ask Doctor MacNeill to dismiss her when I at last met him. I needed to protect Mountie – she was such a dear, young girl.

One day, when we were out walking, she led me far down into the valley, and, in the distance, I glimpsed a number of children walking around barefoot in the snow. Mountie became quite upset and through a series of nods and shrugs, I was able to determine that some of the children were her half-brothers and sisters.

That afternoon, instead of sewing clothes for her latest doll, I encouraged her to begin making moccasins for the Cove children. Her whole face lit up at the idea that she could help the others. Ruby Mae explained that she doubted that the children would accept the 'sack-boots' however nicely the linen was sewn inside them, because they would not be beholden to anyone.

I told Mountie that she was a very special person, and I was sure that they would want to honour her efforts. At such moments, her shy smile would reach her soulful eyes and she would clasp me about the shoulders, her heart opening to love just a little more each time. I hoped for her to understand God's love deep in her soul, like some of the women who worked at the Orphanage had been able to show me.

One afternoon, I had an idea. I would send letters to church members I knew back in Asheville, asking for shoes, blankets and other such goods to be donated for the children of Cutter Gap whom Mountie grieved over. I made it into a lesson, having her copy the letter onto paper instead of completing her comprehension exercises on her slate. I was determined to take the letters down to the flag-stop on my afternoon walk. I convinced Mountie to stay at Thistlewood Hall, thinking that the distance would be too far for her. I left her following Ruby Mae about as the young wife made the beds.

The exercise lifted my spirits and the setting sun turned the frost gold, making me think of some of my favourite verses from the Book of Revelation about heaven being a city of gold. I walked with purpose, carrying my bundle of letters within my muff.

The creek that usually ran close to that path was half frozen. I was sure I could hear its slow trickle every now and then in the still, white world I was passing through. Suddenly, I heard a whimpering echo and then a growl. I looked all around me. A large hound almost knocked me off my feet. The whinnying of a galloping horse was then upon me. I seemed to have startled both the horse and its rider, who cursed as he fell into a bank of snow. He had a slight Scottish accent, which surprised me.

The man appeared to be in his thirties. He struggled to his feet and limped towards his frightened stead. The rider was big-boned, a large frame even for a man. He had a shock of brown-reddish hair, unkempt, looking as if it had not been cut in a long time, tousled and curly like a lion's mane. His features were rugged with deeply etched lines, craggy like the mountains around about us.

"Can I do anything, sir?" I managed to ask, shaken by our encounter.

He stared at me and then grunted, "Get back!"

"Are you injured, sir?" I asked worriedly, wondering how far I was from aid.

"My blasted ankle hurts like the blazes!" he exclaimed, "You look more like a phantom than a lass! Why were you hovering hereabouts?"

"I am on my way to the flag-stop to leave my letters for Mr Pentland," I explained.

"At this time of day?" he asked, grabbing his horse's reins and limping over to try to mount the animal. "In winter? Where do you come from?"

"Thistlewood Hall," I told him, raising my chin despite his accusatory stare.

"Whose house is that?" he asked all the more curiously.

"Dr MacNeill owns it," I responded. "Do you know him?"

"Do you know him?" he asked, a faint smirk lightening his features.

"I have never seen him. I am Miss Mountie's governess," I explained.

"Deuce, I had forgotten," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?" I asked, but he turned and mounted his horse, ignoring my inquiry.

I listened to the pounding of hooves and the dog's barking as he hurried away. I turned and rushed towards the flag-stop. I hoped that Ben Pentland had not already been there to collect the mail from the makeshift post-box. I badly wanted to my charitable scheme to be a success.

_A/N: Please review… _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Mountie and I dined as usual in Mrs Tatum's parlour; the afternoon was windy and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. As it grew dark, I allowed Mountie to put away the books, and to run downstairs, realising that she wanted to spend some time with Doctor MacNeill.

I was surprised when I returned to the parlour to be told by Mrs Tatum that Dr MacNeill wished to speak with me. My surprise meeting with my employer, and his subsequent injury, had weighed heavily on my mind all day.

"When is his supper-time?" I inquired.

"Oh, at six o'clock: he keeps early hours, in case he has to hurry off on a night call or two." I found her scrutinising my simple navy skirt, white blouse and maroon cardigan. "You'll want a brooch," Mrs Tatum, announced, clucking her tongue as she turned to search through one of the bureau drawers. Locating one, she pinned it above the top button of my blouse. "There!" she said proudly.

I looked down at the little pearl ornament hanging from a cameo. "It's beautiful," I smiled and began to protest that I could not carry it off.

"Nonsense," she put her hands on her hips, "It were my sister's, Miss Christy and you had better wear it!"

Seeing it as an offer of friendship, I thanked Mrs Tatum and then walked towards the dining room. I stopped at the mirror beside the coatrack, checking over my appearance. Knowing there was little I could do about the hollows of my cheeks, which were slowly becoming less noticeable thanks to the housekeeper's 'second helpings', I pulled my hair loose and let half fall across my shoulders, tying the top part back up.

One day, when Miss Blount had taken me from the Orphanage into Asheville's stores near Pack Square, I had seen young ladies with their hair thus. Even though I did not have finely tailored outfits to wear, changing my hairstyle made me feel a little more confident.

Dr MacNeill sat at one end of the dining table, surrounded by books and anatomical models. Mountie played on the ground by his feet with a new train set; her face aglow, not so much from the fire warming the room, than from his attention whenever he mumbled a comment about the train's progress.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay the large hound, which had scared me the day before. I had since heard from Ruby Mae that his name was Culloden. He had seemed battle-ready the day before, but now he was at rest.

"Good evening, Miss Huddleston," the doctor said suddenly, his foot jerking slightly on the cushioned chair beneath the edge table, as if he had meant to stand, but realised he was unable to.

"Good evening, Doctor," I replied, smiling hesitantly and smoothing my dark skirt of imaginary wrinkles.

Mountie was on her feet at once, rushing over to hug my legs and bury her face in my side. I stroked her hair and asked her about the train set. Her eyes were alive with wonder as she led me along the tracks that she had laid out and pointed out a couple of places. I began to realise that she was replicating the places hereabouts. I smiled fondly, trying to prompt her, for the hundredth time to use words.

"You're quite fond of her," Dr MacNeill observed.

"I certainly am," I replied, somewhat defensively.

Mrs Tatum interrupted us, carrying a large supper tray in. She was soon fussing about the doctor's lack of manners, asking him why I had not been offered a seat, and why had he not cleared away all his odds and ends. He became quite irate with her, but Mrs Tatum did not seem to mind. She tutted and moved things around, making room for Mountie and I to sit at the same end of the table. The doctor pointed out that his leg made this rather difficult.

"Oh, you're as ornery as a bear with a sore paw," Mrs Tatum chastised him, earning her a grunt from her employer.

I sat down, feeling quite embarrassed. He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. As Mrs Tatum laid out the cutlery and bowls from the tray, she chatted away in her amiable way.

"I should like to eat before this goes cold," was the sole thanks she got.

She hastened to leave the room, nodding when he called out that she should close the door behind her.

"Will you hand Dr MacNeill's cup?" I asked Mountie, reaching for the teapot; she handed it to me and then carefully went to take it back to her uncle.

"She'll spill it," he grumbled.

"She's been practising," I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

Mountie did as I had instructed her. Her eyes fixed on the cup as she slowly walked to his side.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "I wouldn't have thought that kind of lesson was on a curriculum."

"I thought it best to help Mountie learn this, as some of the lads who work in the house teased her about spilling drinks and the like."

"That's very considerate," he said, but the guarded gruffness was still making the compliment seem like an insult.

Mountie now sat, watching me using my soupspoon and imitating my movements. Dr MacNeill glanced from me to his niece, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

I attempted to make polite dinner conversation, asking him about his travels and his Scottish accent, but his answers only gave me the briefest insights into his character and background.

I lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, watching a log burning in the grate.

"You have been resident in my house for over a month?" he asked at length.

"Yes, sir."

"And you came from—?"

"From Lowood Orphanage, in Asheville," I replied.

"Ah! A charitable concern! How long were you there?"

"Eight years."

"Eight years! You must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you came on me in the lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?"

"I have none. They died when I was a toddler."

"Where do your brothers and sisters live?"

"I have no brothers or sisters."

"Who recommended you to come here?"

"I advertised, and Mrs Tatum answered my advertisement. In His providence, I have found a lovely pupil," I smiled at Mountie who was watching us both warily.

"You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in religious forms. Who runs that orphanage?"

"Reverend Brocklehurst and his wife. They did not teach me God's love – it was the women who volunteered there who did that. The Brocklehurst's starved us when I was Mountie's age. The sudden deaths made me scared to go to sleep each night."

Tears fell from Mountie's soulful eyes and I walked around the table to be of comfort to her, but she pushed past me, bolting from the room. She must have thought my life had always been one of privilege; maybe she felt betrayed because whenever she came sobbing to my arms, I had not told her of my own pain. Perhaps, however, she was just overwhelmed by the Doctor's clinical scrutiny.

"Is it that she can't talk, or won't?" I asked, facing her uncle.

Dr MacNeill wiped his hands on a napkin. "I don't know for sure, but there is no physical injury that explains it. I believe it is a form of what a German physician I read the work of called aphasia voluntaria. Her grief over her own… 'Brocklehurst's' has stilled her tongue."

"What can be done?" I asked at once.

"Are you implying that I have not done enough for my brother's only child?" he yelled.

We were interrupted by the sound of a gunshot echoing through the house.


End file.
